Master Plan
by Dukes126plus
Summary: Right about then, it started to feel like a plot. From Sky Bandits Over Hazzard.


Proof that Bo's more clever than he likes to let on? Or genuine post-traumatic stress? You decide. From _Sky Bandits Over Hazzard._

* * *

It felt like a plot, some kind of devious plan, sophisticated enough to get the better of him. Problem with that idea was that there was no way Bo could have done it alone and the obvious conspirator was Boss Hogg. Luke was not willing to imagine that for even a second, so for all that it felt planned, it must have been an accident.

It started last Friday night after they'd sufficiently celebrated breaking up yet another crime ring with two or three or ten rounds at the Boar's Nest. Bo wasn't drunk, but he wasn't sober and he slept fitfully; still it was a normal enough kind of restlessness to allow Luke drift off his customary four feet away.

The whining and kicking at blankets was a little harder to sleep through than what had come before, but Luke's half conscious mind shrugged it off. Bo wasn't drunk enough that Luke had to make sure he didn't wind up on his back or anything.

Still, from the day he was unceremoniously dumped on Luke for the watching, Bo was never exactly a quiet boy. The holler that followed on the whining should have brought Jesse running. Didn't, and that could maybe be chalked down to that same master plan that Luke absolutely did _not_ believe in.

Check for blood, that was all Luke meant to do when he got onto Bo's bed, hardly touching the floor in between. Wound up having to pin those skinny wrists up on the headboard to keep himself from getting slapped in the childish frenzy taking place in the mess of all those sheets.

"Red," was the first coherent word out of his cousin's mouth. "So red and so _tight_." The words sounded like they could have been describing the very best kind of dream, but the horror on Bo's face told him otherwise.

"What was red and tight, Bo?" Just to get to the bottom of whatever it was so he would have half a chance of catching at least a nap before morning chores.

Breathing heavily, his spastic cousin was fighting back against Luke's hands now; seemed wise to let him go.

"You saw it too, Luke," Bo accused.

"Saw what?" He was only half listening at the moment, checking Bo's pupils for dilation and his chest for some sort of bloody gash or other gaping wound. Seeing none, he reckoned whatever it was had been a figment in Bo's tiny little mind and would dispel itself soon enough.

Exasperation. Luke was apparently just stubbornly denying what he'd seen. "Boss! Red spandex! Tight and bending and…" That there was close to bawling, the kind of thing Luke had never been able to tolerate. Then again, just this once, he could probably indulge it.

"It's over, Bo," Luke reminded him. Didn't last that long to begin with.

Blonde mess of hair flew everywhere with Bo's vehement disagreement. "It ain't never left up here!" he complained, pointing to his head.

Yeah, well a one-track mind could do that to you.

"Think of something else," Luke suggested, helpfully. "Like fishing or something."

Mercifully Bo's forehead wrinkles smoothed out some, which was an indication that he was trying, anyway.

"Or maybe driving," Luke suggested. It was an easier fit. "Just driving down the road, ain't nothing behind you and the only thing in front of you is that dirt ramp at the edge of Dry Creek…"

All the lines were gone from Bo's face now, and the right corner of his lips turned up. Yeah, there wasn't much space in that brain, Bo could only keep one thought going at a time. Hazzard's scenery flying by through a windshield was a vastly superior single image to hang onto than the one Bo'd been stuck with: Boss in some kind of a workout suit, doing those unfortunately deep bending sort of movements.

Didn't take but a minute for Luke to reckon it was safe to leave Bo to his own happier dreams, and he made to get up. Faster than he'd ever seen Bo move, his wrist got snatched and he was tugged back down.

"Stay with me," Bo begged.

"I got to get some sleep, Bo." Perfect, indisputable logic. Uncle Jesse would tan both their hides if they didn't show up well-rested and ready for a full day of torture.

"You can sleep here." Bo was more than tugging now, pulling was more like it, shuffling to make an inch of room for Luke to lie beside him. "Please, Luke. It was so tight, and I could see right up his—"

"Shh, Bo." The childish whine was grating enough. Luke didn't want to hear the words, too. "Shh. I'll stay, but only if you promise to go right to sleep and no more talking." Yeah, he'd said all of that before, like twenty years ago. Some cousins never grew up.

Besides, it was only one night. Except that the next night was worse, and Bo was remembering how _shiny_ it all was. Day after that it was jiggly, and then there was the night Bo was shoving his way into Luke's bed remembering spread thighs. There was the front view and the back view and the fear of cherry jello to be gotten over, and by the end of the week, Bo wouldn't even pretend to go to sleep unless it was in Luke's arms. It was _ridiculous_, was what it was.

And ridiculous it stayed until about ten days in, the morning they woke up not spooning, but chest to chest and hip to hip, and face to face. Bo kissed him like it was only natural, ran a hand through his hair like he'd been doing it for years. Wrapped one long leg over both of Luke's and took up the last inch of space between them like it had always been his to begin with.

Right about then, it started to feel like a plot.


End file.
